<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Moving Day by Once_More_With_Feeling</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28672206">Moving Day</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Once_More_With_Feeling/pseuds/Once_More_With_Feeling'>Once_More_With_Feeling</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Downton Abbey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Extremely awkward but very important conversations, Friendship, Gen, Mother-Son Relationship, Moving Out, Past Character Death, Post-Canon, Post-Series, moving in</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 05:22:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,117</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28672206</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Once_More_With_Feeling/pseuds/Once_More_With_Feeling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>As promised, Thomas moves into the cottage with Mrs. Hughes.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Thomas Barrow &amp; Elsie Hughes, Thomas Barrow &amp; Phyllis Baxter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>84</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I would guess that I've had this one in my head for about four years. I've been waiting to find out who Thomas' life partner is to write it, though. And although canon hasn't firmly promised that Mr. Ellis is The One, I would say much of this fandom agrees that he is, and I am perfectly happy to sail on that ship.</p>
<p>Thank you so much to Ariel_Tempest, for your blessing. </p>
<p>Thank you also to Jolie_Black. Conversations with you over the last couple of months inspired me to finally write this one down.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>1932 </strong>
</p>
<p>The butler places the last of his belongings into his case, closes the lid, and sighs.</p>
<p>He looks around his room—more sparse now than ever before, with everything he owns shut into two cases and a trunk—and this time, he smiles. Funny how finally moving out of this attic makes him feel both freed and somehow, at the same time, resigned.</p>
<p>He lifts the case off of the bed, and stands there a moment, contemplating the bed’s creaky metal frame, and the thin little mattress he has spent so much of his life lying on. It makes no logical sense, but he supposes a part of him still living had hoped that when he moved out of this room, it wouldn’t be to just another small room on the estate, with another bed just as narrow.</p>
<p>As he turns toward his bedroom door, it opens, to reveal Mrs. Molesley. She gives him a wry smile, and clasps her hands in front of her. “I came to help you pack,” she says. “I see I’m a bit late.”</p>
<p>He puts the case on the floor next to the others, and shrugs. “Not much to pack,” he says.</p>
<p>She tilts her head in a mini shrug, and glances at his packed belongings. “I think you’ve got more than I have,” she says. She looks at him again, and continues, “And it’s not just the clothes,” with a teasing smile.</p>
<p>He raises his eyebrows. “Steady,” he says.</p>
<p>“Or all the hats,” she adds, feigning condescension.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>She looks at him. “I suppose I’m just jealous. You have such better hats than I do.”</p>
<p>His mouth falls open just a little. “That’s because you have mostly terrible hats. It’s not my fault,” he quips, before he can stop himself.</p>
<p>Luckily, she just laughs now, and sits on his bed. “No, really,” she says. “You’ve been here much longer than I have. Had more time to accumulate… memories.”</p>
<p>He gives in, and sits next to her. “Twenty-two years,” he says, to the ceiling. “Not counting a hiatus or two, for the war, and the Stileses.”</p>
<p>“And you’ll still <em>be here</em>,” she explains, as though he doesn’t already know. “You just won’t…” she trails off, and looks around the room again. “…live here,” she finishes, softly. Perhaps some part of her will miss this part of him more than he will.</p>
<p>He nods.</p>
<p>“Thomas?” she asks.</p>
<p>“Hm?”</p>
<p>She leans into him a little. “Are you happy? Truly? You know you don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”</p>
<p>He looks at her for a second, then at the floor. “Of course I am. I told Mr. Carson years ago I would move in with her after… he was gone, and I’m not just doing it because I promised.” Careful, now. “She’s my family. Just like you are.” A pause. “She deserves it, to be taken care of, after all she’s done, for all of us. I want to. I do,” he says, realizing in that moment how very much he sounds like a man trying to convince himself. He gives her a weak smile.</p>
<p>She looks up at him with her watery brown eyes, and says softly, “But you’d rather be moving in with him.”</p>
<p>Now he looks away from her, and tries with sheer will to make his own eyes stay dry. He fails. Then he nods. “Yeah,” he whispers.</p>
<p>She links her arm through his, and rests her head fully on his shoulder. “It’s not fair,” she says softly, before he can say it—saving him from feeling sorry for himself.</p>
<p>“Well,” he says, his voice still low. “I can’t have what I really want… and it’s not like it’s a bad thing, sharing a house with Mrs. Hughes.”</p>
<p>She stays where she is, leaning on his arm. “If you’re happy, then I’m happy for you,” she says. Then she lifts her head, and looks at him again. “It’ll be nice to have a cottage, won’t it?” she asks.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” he says again, nodding more firmly.</p>
<p>She smiles, and stands, then takes him by the hand, and pulls him up to standing. “Come on,” she says. “I’ll walk over with you if you want. I can carry the small case for you.”</p>
<p>“Thanks, Phyl,” he says. “But Andy said he’d drive the trunk over later; I just need to haul it downstairs. And I feel like I should… go by myself. You know… show up on her doorstep on my own.”</p>
<p>She nods, but adds, “<em>Your </em>doorstep.”</p>
<p>He concedes with a bit of a smile. “Right,” he says.</p>
<p>They pick up his things, and walk together out of the room, and down the stairs.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When he lands on her doorstep not half an hour later, he tries for a moment to think of it as his own. He can’t quite manage it, though; he rings the bell, and steps back to wait.</p>
<p>Mrs. Hughes throws open the door, and nearly laughs. “You don’t have to ring the bell, Thomas,” she says, smiling. “This is your home now.”</p>
<p>He winces for a second only, then tries to wipe it away with a smile of his own, however unsure. “Right,” he whispers.</p>
<p>Her smile changes now, from one of amusement, to the soft, dewy-eyed look she gets when he has done something particularly good, or kind. The one she uses when she is trying not to smother him with her pride, and delight, in said goodness. “Come in,” she says, softly.</p>
<p>He follows her inside, sets down the two smaller cases, and lets her help him out of his coat. “I’m making tea,” she says, as she hangs his coat on a peg near the door, next to her own. “You can go up and start putting your things away, and I’ll bring you a cup in just a bit.” He turns to face her. “Does that sound alright?”</p>
<p>He takes off his hat, and hangs it above his coat. He knows the next thing is to carry his cases upstairs, and settle in, but he can’t quite will himself to move in that direction. He looks at his shoes.</p>
<p>“Mrs. Hughes,” he begins, ever so quietly. “Are you… certain, that you want to do this? That you want me to be here? Every day, like this?”</p>
<p>She puts a hand on his arm. He can’t bring himself to look at her, but he notes that her tone is low, and somehow reassuring. “Yes, I am certain,” she says. “But you don’t have to live here, if it’s not what you want.”</p>
<p>“It’s not that, really,” he mumbles.</p>
<p>“Then what is it?” she asks.</p>
<p>“It’s nothing,” he answers, quickly. “It’s…” What is he getting at, anyway? “Never mind,” he says, with another smile. He hopes it looks convincing. “I’ll just take my things up,” he finishes, and picks up his cases once more.</p>
<p>At the top of the stairs, he peeks into the room to his left. He can see immediately that this is Mrs. Hughes’ room, the one she used to share with Mr. Carson. He moves to his right, down the short corridor. A door in the middle of the hallway leads to a bathroom, with a tub, and white tiles. He shudders just a little as he passes it, and stands for a moment outside the door at the end of the corridor—his new room.</p>
<p>The door is ajar, so he pushes it open by bumping one of his cases against it. But as soon as he crosses the threshold, he stops. The space contains no personal effects, of course—not yet. It does contain a little writing desk with a chair, a bureau, and a small bedside table—this is all just as he had expected. What he did not expect, however, is the bed itself. “What…?” he begins, addressing no one but himself.</p>
<p>For the bed in front of him is not a narrow, single cot with a metal frame, made for a servant. It is an oak bedstead, with a thick mattress, and two fluffy pillows at its head. And it is at least five feet wide.</p>
<p>Thomas swallows, and finally steps into the room. He puts his cases on the floor, and closes the door behind him. He stares down at the beautiful piece of furniture, and a thousand unfinished questions run through his mind all at once. The first complete thought he can manage is how relieved he is that Mrs. Hughes did not accompany him upstairs, and show him to his new room.</p>
<p>Then he remembers the tea. She is bringing him a cup of tea, any minute.</p>
<p>He wipes his sweating hands on his trousers, turns back to the door, and opens it, to find her coming down the corridor, with a steaming cup on a saucer. He steps out of the room, and slams the door closed behind him, rather more forcefully than he had intended.</p>
<p>She stops in front of him, and the smile fades from her face. “Is everything alright?” she asks.</p>
<p>He nods mutely.</p>
<p>After a moment, she speaks again, tentatively. “Did you… put everything away already?”</p>
<p>“Um…” he begins. “No. Not yet.”</p>
<p>“Thomas,” she says. “Is something wrong? Are you alright?”</p>
<p>“Where did that bed come from?” he blurts out, before he can even decide if he wants to ask.</p>
<p>Suddenly the color begins to rise in her face, too. So they are going to talk about this, then. Just standing here in the corridor, with a cup of tea between them.</p>
<p>“It came from the furniture builder, in the village,” she says, her tone insistently light.</p>
<p>He blushes, and looks away from her. “No, I mean…” What does he mean, exactly?</p>
<p>Before he can fail to complete another sentence, Mrs. Hughes moves closer, and when she speaks again, her voice is low, and gentle. “I thought I had told you, but I must’ve forgot. Mr. Carson and I bought it, last year.” She does not cry at mentioning her late husband, but there is a tiny hitch in her voice now. “We wanted to have a proper guest room at the time. You know, in case any couples that we know came to stay.”</p>
<p>Thomas racks his brain for a second or two, and tries to remember if she has ever mentioned any married couples coming to stay at the cottage, before Mr. Carson died, or after. He can’t think of a single instance, though. Is she having him on?</p>
<p>Before he can ask, though, she continues. “And now it’s yours,” she says, rather brightly, though she still speaks more to the cup of tea in her hands, than to him.</p>
<p>He looks at her, but he still can’t make his mouth form any sensible words. So he just takes the cup from her, and whispers, “Thank you,” as though he were only grateful for the tea.  </p>
<p>She smiles, and turns to go. “I’ll just give you some time to get settled,” she says. “I’ll be downstairs, if you need anything.”</p>
<p>He nods, but she does not move to go. She looks down a bit, and says, as though the thought had just occurred to her, “You know, Thomas, if you wanted to have a… guest,” she says, clearly choosing her words carefully. “That would be fine. If, say, you wished to invite Mr. Ellis for tea, or dinner…” She looks up at him now, and he sees that her face is as red as his feels. But she presses on. “And if you would like him to stop here…” Her eyes meet his. “You would be safe. Here.”</p>
<p>Thomas can feel himself sway on his feet. Mrs. Hughes reaches for him, and puts her hand on his arm again, possibly to keep him from falling over. Once he has steadied himself, he looks back at her, difficult as it is to do, and whispers again, “Thank you, Mrs. Hughes.”</p>
<p>She gives him a little smile, and reaches up, and swiftly brushes his chin once with the backs of her fingers. “Don’t thank me,” she says, cheerful again. “This is your home. You’re free to do as you please.” He nods silently, and then she stands on her toes, and gives him a kiss on his cheek. “I’ll go back down now, and leave you to it.”</p>
<p>When she is gone, Thomas takes the cup of tea into his new room, and sets it down on the bedside table. Then he shakes his head a little, truly smiles, and lifts the smaller of his two cases onto the bed. He opens it, and begins to put his things away, where they belong.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Part of me wonders if this isn't just too awkward for its own good. This is just meant to be a little story about someone who loves Thomas, doing what she can to make a safe space for him to be with the one he loves, at a time in history when such safety was tragically rare. I hope that's how it comes off. Thank you to everyone who has kudos-ed and commented.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>